


Incompleteness

by ScarletThread



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletThread/pseuds/ScarletThread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock becomes so engrossed in his and John’s love life (and whether or not to tell anyone about it) that he ignores what might turn out to be the most important case of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incompleteness

"John?"

John rolled over to face the door. He blearily peered at Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway, wearing a half-buttoned white shirt, boxer shorts, and a somewhat impatient expression.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Sherlock said, walking into the kitchen. He called back, "You need to make coffee."

John let his head drop back onto his pillow. He glanced to his left at the limp blanket and dented pillow where Sherlock had been sleeping. He draped his hand across the sheets there and shut his eyes for a moment. Then he tossed the blanket off his legs and pulled on some clothes. He knew that he needn't hurry, that Sherlock would wait as long as he needed for John to make the coffee, but now that he was awake, coffee sounded like a good idea.

Sherlock was sitting in one of the armchairs, reading the paper. John strolled around the kitchen, starting the coffee. While it brewed, he sat in the other armchair and watched Sherlock. Without looking up, Sherlock said, "Though it may not seem so to you, reading one side of the paper while I read the other is audaciously impolite."

"I'm not looking at the paper," John replied softly. Sherlock glanced up, smiled a little, and went back to reading.

  


"Wait a moment, I'll come."

John turned from the door and looked at Sherlock. "You're coming grocery shopping?" He dropped his arms incredulously. "I thought you considered it tedious and not worth your precious time."

"Well I've got nothing better to do," Sherlock continued, shrugging on his coat and adjusting the collar. He paused. "Never thought I'd ever say that I have nothing better to do than grocery shopping." John smirked. Sherlock smirked back, then took hold of John's hand and opened the door.

  


"You two had a phone call just after you left," Mrs. Hudson relayed as Sherlock and John climbed the stairs to their flat.

John was about to thank her politely when Sherlock preempted him with a loud "We don't really care, Mrs. Hudson." She spotted their entwined hands and, tittering, ducked back into her flat.

After putting away some of the groceries, Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf, then browsed his laptop, while John shelved cupboard-bound purchases.

"You haven't mentioned me in your blog," Sherlock commented from the living room.

John poked his head out of the kitchen. "What do you mean? You're all it's about."

"No. You haven't mentioned _us_ ," Sherlock clarified. "Isn't this blog supposed to be about everything that happens?"

John shelved the last box and sat next to Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his knuckles.

"Sherlock, do you honestly want me to announce to the world that we're together?" Sherlock kept his eyes on the screen, not giving in. "You haven't mentioned 'us' on your website, or to any of the people you work with." He put his arm on Sherlock's shoulder. "I think we both know it's better to keep it between the two of us for the time being." He turned his face to the computer screen. "Besides, you can't tell me you didn't spot all those subtle innuendos I threw in there." Sherlock smirked.

John leaned in and gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. "If someone as keen as you reads my blog and notices everything I slip in, they'll figure out that we're together." He looked into Sherlock's face. "But, I don't think there are many people like you."

Sherlock allowed a smile. John smiled back. Then Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and kissed him. He helped John pull off his coat, and they sat entangled in each other's arms and lips. Then the phone rang.

"Shouldn't you get that?" John mumbled, his mouth half on Sherlock's lips and half on his cheek. Sherlock just shook his head gently and silenced John with his tongue. They remained on the couch as the phone rang on and on, and hours later, when the caller had long since hung up, they were still there. John lay with his head on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock had one arm around John and the other resting on the lump under his open shirt that was John's hand. Both were fast asleep, and although they were in separate dream worlds, they weren't having very different dreams.

  


"Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't glance up from the lab experiment he was conducting. Lestrade took two steps and was by his side.

"Sherlock, I called you twice yesterday. Where were you? I know you weren't working on a case."

Sherlock allowed a few moments to pass, then finally conceded, "The first time you called, I was out shopping." His eyes were still on his work.

"You. Were out shopping," Lestrade repeated, not convinced.

"It is possible for me to go out shopping," Sherlock replied.

"What about the second time?" Lestrade insisted.

"Busy," Sherlock rebutted shortly.

"Busy. I see. Too busy for a case?"

"Lestrade, if this is about the Myston revolver murderer, I've already told you—"

"We've got new data on the bullet!"

"—I don't have time to do your job for you. It's a very simple case." He looked at Lestrade. "You've come to rely on me too much. If the answer isn't staring you in the face you come pleading to me, trying to get me to do the work."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is."

"Don't act like you don't enjoy doing the work. With most cases I can't get you to stop investigating."

"That's because they're challenging. I won't stop investigating the hard cases. This one doesn't interest me. I'd rather focus on something else than get involved in this."

"What else do you have to focus on?"

Sherlock glanced up for a second, but kept silent. He turned back to his experiment, and ignored Lestrade until he was left alone.

  


"Everything all right? It's getting late," John said as Sherlock took off his coat.

"Lestrade pulled me out of focus for a few minutes."

John brought out two steaming plates of food. "Lestrade came to talk to you at the hospital? Is there a new case?"

"No, just an old case that Lestrade still hasn't figured out." Sherlock sat on the couch and took the napkin that John handed him.

"Shouldn't you help him?"

"He'll have it solved by now if he's set his mind to it." John sat down next to him and gave him a look. "If he's still clueless by tomorrow perhaps I'll step in," Sherlock allowed.

"Not that you like taking charge," John remarked.

"Of course not," Sherlock agreed. They smirked at each other fleetingly, and began their dinner.

"So, nothing to do tonight, then," John pointed out. "Feel like seeing a movie?"

"No, movies are dull. Everything's spelled out for normal people so I can always guess the endings." He swallowed his food. "A walk, though, would do me some good."

"A walk it is," John affirmed. "I'm surprised you're taking your lack of cases so well. Remember the time you were so bored you started shooting the wall?"

Sherlock smiled at the memory. "Well, now I've got you to keep things exciting," he glanced at John, then glanced down between his own legs. "In more ways than one."

  


"So, have you ever had a girlfriend?" John asked as he and Sherlock walked down the dark, empty backstreet, keeping one another's hand warm in the space between their hips. John was wearing an old, well-worn coat, as Sherlock was wearing John's usual one.

"Well, no, and I think the reason is clear," Sherlock replied, indicating their hands.

"I've had girlfriends," John countered.

"Congratulations. You're not me."

"You can't have always thought you were gay."

Sherlock took a moment, then answered, "I actually never thought I was gay. Not once. I never considered it, because I never considered having any sort of relationship." He glanced at John. "That's the reason. I never thought I'd be happy if I knew I needed someone else."

"You need me," John repeated very quietly, a question in his voice. Sherlock didn't answer it, not in words, but held onto John's hand tighter.  


"John."

Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. John opened his eyes slowly. They were standing in an alley, the dim light of a nearby streetlamp falling delicately on their faces. Sherlock had John against the brick wall of a building, their bodies delectably close.

John's brown eyes looked into Sherlock's intrinsic blue ones. There was silence. Then,

"I do need you." Sherlock said it with his eyes still on John's, his honesty undeniable. He remained for a moment, a moment full of promise, of something that had waited too long to be said, but then he looked away. John kept his eyes on Sherlock's subtly anguished face, slightly hopeful. But then Sherlock laid his hand on John's cheek instead. John looked at him, his eyes deep and full.

Sherlock smiled, a true and happy smile, but still with that slightly superior air he always held. He held John's face in his right hand and kissed him, slowly but passionately. John let his hand slide into Sherlock's dark curls. Moments passed. Sherlock rested his left hand on the brick wall next to John's head, and took a soft breath through the side of his mouth, his lips still on John's and his eyes still closed.

John slid his hands over Sherlock's body and found the zipper of his coat. He unzipped it carefully and explored Sherlock's chest and back with his hands. Sherlock slid both his hands over John's shoulders. Their bodies pressed together.

Then Sherlock heard a noise.

Was it a scuffle? Someone dragging their shoe across the ground? Someone dropping a purse? Someone closing a book? He couldn't discern it, he hadn't been paying attention to the rest of the world. In any case, it was disconcerting. He had thought they were alone. They _should_ be alone; it was past midnight and they were in an alleyway on a rarely used street. What that meant was that it wasn't a coincidence. Someone was there intentionally. They were being watched.

"John," Sherlock said abruptly, trying to keep the unusual panic out of his voice but not entirely succeeding.

"What is it?" John answered, apprehensive.

Sherlock took a few steps back, trying to plan an escape. "We need to get out of here."

"What's wrong?" John asked seriously. 

"I don't know, I don't know," Sherlock said restlessly, glancing around, trying to figure out who was following them and why. He had been so distracted— Why hadn't he been more alert— He was a detective, he knew how common crime and murder were— They needed to get out of there. How? Would the stalker follow them? Would they be able to get somewhere safe soon enough?

"Sherlock—" John knew something was wrong. Sherlock was panic-stricken. He usually had an immediate plan but this time he seemed at a loss. John wasn't used to this; Sherlock was always in charge, always knew what to do. Always. Except for now, when they were the most vulnerable they had ever been.

"Come on," Sherlock said finally, catching John's hand and pulling him firmly to the left down the alleyway, the quickest way to the street. John's coat, loose on Sherlock's thin frame, flew out behind him as they ran. They had just reached the end of the alleyway, Sherlock had just remembered the way to a large and secure 24-hour department store, when—

Sherlock heard the shot, then its echoes, and he wasn't sure if the sound was bouncing off the walls of the buildings or his own mind. The sound he surely knew was real was the ghostly, sickening gasp. But he also surely knew that he was feeling no pain. There was no reason for him to gasp. Not yet.

He turned, realization flooding his mind like icy water, drowning him.

A circle of blood was seeping through John's shirt and glistened in the fabric of his old jacket. Its center was exactly beneath his breastbone, between the two sides of his rib cage. He fell against the brick wall, his hands clutching his chest.

"Joh—John." Sherlock kneeled close to him as he slumped against the wall. The blood never stopped spreading. Sherlock took one of John's hands and squeezed it tighter than he ever had, as if that could somehow stop him from losing John. He had always thought it painfully futile to try to save someone from dying when they are an inch away from it, but he couldn't imagine stepping back. He couldn't imagine accepting that the person you couldn't live without was about to force you to do just that. So he grasped John's hand, held his head softly with his fingers, even when John's brown eyes, which had just minutes ago been deep with warm emotion and lucid mystery, sank into lifelessness, never to meet Sherlock's again.

  


Sherlock sat on the curb, a bright orange blanket around his shoulders. A few minutes ago, people had been dashing past him, determined and confident. Now, everyone stood stationary in an ashen and somewhat defeated silence. At least, Sherlock thought it was silence. He couldn't hear anything going on at present, only the echo of the revolver's shot, over and over in the chasms of his brilliant mind.

 _"...caught the shooter..."_ Something trickled its way into an understanding part of his brain. A policeman was talking somewhere over there. _"...same one who shot Cliff Myston. Apparently he saw Lestrade go to Holmes for help on the case, and was trying to stop Holmes before he solved it.... tried to aim from too far away, ended up shooting Watson instead."_

Sherlock stared at the ground. _I need you_ , he'd said. He had admitted his dependence, his personal imperfection that had to be reconciled by another being, only to have it taken advantage of by a selfish murderer. The one thing he had ever needed in his life had been denied him, only after he had realized his incompleteness.

He became aware of a presence next to him. He slowly, barely, glanced over to see Lestrade sitting on the curb. He was peering at him with a concerned, interested look. "Are you going to be all right?"

Sherlock comprehended that Lestrade was not aware of how deep his and John's relationship was, and was therefore slightly disquieted by the extent of ever-stoic Sherlock's notable trauma.

"No," he answered firmly. "I'm never going to be all right again." He pulled the orange blanket tighter around his shoulders, and once again ignored Lestrade. But this time Lestrade didn't leave him alone. Even when all the other policemen had driven away, Lestrade guided Sherlock to a car and escorted him wordlessly back to his flat. Sherlock sat on the couch, the cushion next to him cold and stiff, alone with his thoughts.

  


A sharp breeze sliced through the air, but Sherlock was protected by his scarf and his coat. He had wanted to wear John's coat to the funeral, but knew that it might seem disrespectful to those people who didn't know that he just needed it close to him.

It was after words had been spoken, and now only a handful of people was still gathered around the coffin. Lestrade stood a few feet behind Sherlock. Lately, he seemed to feel like he should stay near. Harry, John's sister, stood across from Sherlock, her face continually half-hidden by a tissue. She had sobbed and hugged Sherlock after the ceremony, but Sherlock had stayed stoic and still, seemingly unfeeling.

Numb.

"I could have saved him." Sherlock's words met everyone's ears sharply, like the first thing heard after bringing your head above the surface of the water.

"There was nothing you could do," Lestrade argued after a pause.

"The man who shot him was the same man who shot Cliff Myston," Sherlock reminded him, not noticing or caring that his frank words were making the others uneasy. "If I had helped you with that case, we could have caught him earlier. If I hadn't been so _damn_ selfish, John would be alive." His hands clenched into fists. "I could have saved him."

The family members were looking quite restless now. This was not what they wanted to hear. They wanted to hear that there was no chance this could have been prevented, that nothing could have been done. And here was this man they didn't know, going on about some fatal mistake he had made that had somehow caused their brother's—cousin's—nephew's—son's—death.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice that none of them contradicted him. None of them doubted that he was at fault.

He kept still. "Ironic, isn't it," he said mirthlessly, "that someone can be such an important part of your life, you don't pay attention to what you can do to keep them there."

Sherlock heard Lestrade step closer to him. He attempted to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock violently shrugged it off. "I could have saved him!" he near-shouted, trying to keep the emotion from running out his eyes by forcing it out his mouth. He lunged at the coffin, his gloved fingers helplessly sliding across its surface, his knees pressing into the moist earth beside it. "Why did you let me be so selfish?" he whispered hoarsely at it. "I could have saved you." And he folded his arms upon the surface of the coffin, buried his wet face in them, and sobbed so hard his shoulders shook.

  


The other side of the couch was still empty. Sherlock kept sitting on the end, as if expecting someone else to sit down next to him. One day, someone did.

Mrs. Hudson set a hot cup of tea down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, perching on the edge of the couch cushion. "Do you need anything, dear?" she asked quietly. Sherlock was staring straight ahead, his head on his knuckles again.

He ran her words over in his mind. "No," he finally answered. Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips sadly, but obligingly left the flat.

Sherlock's eyes fell on John's laptop. He picked it up and considered it. Then, shoving the cup of tea aside, he placed it on the table in front of him. He opened up John's blog.

_You haven't mentioned me. You haven't mentioned us._

He did some clicking around, then opened up a new post.

>   
> _Dr. John Watson will no longer be writing this blog. Last week, he was shot and killed while taking a walk around midnight. I was there. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and you may know me from the stories John has recounted to you about our cases together. The shooter, who was captured immediately and is now in prison for premeditated murder on two occasions, had also been guilty in a case about which I had been approached. He'd been using these blog posts to keep an eye on me ever since that first murder. Last week, he attempted to get rid of me before I discovered that he was the culprit. His aim was poor, and John was shot instead._
> 
> _I will miss John more than you can ever imagine. I love him. I will not say loved, because I never stopped. I will love him as long as I am alive. And as such, it is that long that I will miss him._
> 
> _Although I deeply regret not doing what I could to prevent his death, my biggest regret is never telling him that I love him while I could have. What we had was fragile and strong, enigmatic and unmistakable, obvious and secret. There has never been, and never will be, any other person who I can say completes me._
> 
> _I am not going to pretend and say that the world will not be the same without John, because I have known countless deaths and the world keeps turning. But I will say that my world will never be the same. No one dies without leaving someone behind, without leaving a mark. And John Watson left a mark on me. He may be the only person who will ever do so._
> 
> _I shall ever regard him as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known._

Sherlock submitted the post and closed the laptop. He walked into the kitchen to make his own coffee. While it was brewing, he checked his own laptop. He had many emails of condolences ("I was sorry to hear about your friend"), but also one that was sent via the link on his website. He opened it.

>   
> _Sherlock—_
> 
> _I'm going to type this out and send it before you get back from the hospital, and before I have time to think twice about it._
> 
> _We both knew when we met each other in your lab, so long ago, that our lives had changed. We would never be the same. But neither of us could've anticipated what we have right now. I never knew how much I could need someone. I never knew that the person I needed would be like you. But I'm so glad we found each other._
> 
> _Behind your brisque and independent exterior, I know that you feel this too. I love you, Sherlock. And I know that you love me, too, whether you admit it or not. I know._
> 
> _—John_

Sherlock stared at the words, and read them over and over until every single one made sense. Then he felt tears run from his eyes over his cheeks. They blurred the screen, obscured the words that proved that John had not only loved Sherlock but had known Sherlock loved him back. And through the tears, through the pain and emptiness and shock that had filled the past week, Sherlock smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I ever wrote, after seeing only the first season of Sherlock, in the summer of 2012. (Therefore, it is intended to be set in a sort of AU.) I was daydreaming late one night about Sherlock and John making out in an alleyway, and my mind ran away with me, and suddenly one of them was killed. The next day, I developed a story and wrote the whole thing that night. It's been proofread and tweaked several times since, and I'm content with it, especially as my first work. I apologize for the sadness! Thank you very much for reading it.


End file.
